The Telegram Conundrum
by Tv Centric Universe
Summary: "Desks were tipped over, chairs sent flying, and papers scattered. Cabinets containing important files were pried open with professional efficiency and the doors swung open with growing frustration. Murdoch was nowhere to be seen." Warning: character death. Based on 'Buffalo Shuffle'. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

He was staring at the telegram- he had been all day. Thoughts bounced around his skull, making it difficult to focus on the case at hand. He urged himself to think about something else, and stop dwelling on the very thing that had destroyed him those many months ago. Somehow, he couldn't. Should he go? Should he stay? He didn't know.

It wasn't a question of whether he loved her. Of course he loved her. Without her he was angry and short tempered. He was like a bomb ready to explode, and with every passing day the stress of the job affected him more and more.

Everybody was noticing- the constables, the Inspector, even the chief constable. Rumours were whispered from across the precinct and around every corner. Entering a room, he watched as conversations ceased and his usually chattering peers take sudden interest in their shoes.

He knew he had been short with the men, but he didn't know what else he could do. Inside he was an emotional wreck and the shards of his broken heart prodded him with every breath. The new pathologist was not at all helping. If anything, he had made the situations worse, continuing with his lazy and snarky demeanor. Maybe, he wondered, that's why Brackenreid drank- to deal with the stress.

Returning to the telegram at hand, his thoughts returned to Julia. Maybe he should go. Maybe she regretted what she had done and just wanted to talk. His brows lowered in confusion- sending a telegram was a lot to go through if she just wanted to talk. With a resigning sigh- he pinched between his eyes. She was going to be the death of him.

She had been his life ever since the moment he saw her. Her smile, her wit, everything about her had drawn him to her. She was different than Liza, a little harder around the edges, but with an infinite love for science. Where Liza had been enthralled with literature, Julia had been captivated by science- and he had loved her for it. He had thought she had loved him too.

That was why her leaving had been such a shock. There had been no signs, no clear indications that he was no longer what she wanted. She had told him that she loved him. When had it gone so wrong?

You don't leave your job because you loved someone. Then again, the message said nothing about love. Maybe the telegram was a professional call. Maybe she just wanted him to help solve someone's murder, or a promotion. It wasn't the Ogden he knew, but the Ogden he knew wouldn't leave her career for another city. The Ogden he knew wouldn't leave him.

Running his fingertips over the folded edges, he closed his eyes and carefully lowered it onto his crowded desk- almost as if it would crumble into ash. Finally, he decided, he would stay here. If it was worth his time, she would have to come to Toronto.

He looked at his watch, it was quarter to three. He had spent too much time here, but nowadays it wasn't too unusual. Ever since that day, he had come to staying late, sometimes even sleeping in his office. It wasn't professional, he knew that. But if he went home, he would dream of her, getting one hour of sleep. Staying at work was the only way he got a decent night's rest.

As soon as his head hit the desk, he had slipped into a light sleep. He was suddenly awakened by a quiet shuffling coming from outside the door. Powering on the small light sitting on his desk, he got up slowly, not wanting to startle whoever was out there.

Exiting his office, he looked around the main room of the precinct. The empty desks were eerily cleared off and the silence crept in from every corner. Walking cautiously, he checked the interrogation room, the cells and Brackenreid's office. There was nothing. He must be going crazy, the detective thought to himself.

Returning to his office, he decided to retrieve his hat and coat. Sleeping at home would be futile but he was better off there than in the office imagining things. Opening his door, he felt the pressure of a gun on the small of his back. He instantly froze, his mouth becoming dry. He couldn't move, even if he wanted to. His whole body had become paralyzed and his breath short.

Murdoch felt the mysterious intruder raise his arm and put a white cloth in front of his face. He could smell it- chloroform, and he couldn't stop it. The suspect was going to knock him out- and he, a detective, couldn't even move. What did they want? Again, Murdoch was stumped. Why couldn't he get his mind to function? There were so many questions he couldn't even fathom to answer.

Feeling consciousness slip away, he allowed himself to go limp.


	2. Chapter 2

Entering the stationhouse, Brackenreid nearly had a heart attack- a concern shared with nearly three quarters of the constables. Desks were tipped over, chairs sent flying, and papers scattered. Cabinets containing important files were pried open with professional efficiency and the doors swung open with growing frustration. He couldn't decide if it was a trained criminal or the work of a rookie, but maybe that was the point.

The process was long but once the constables had cleaned up the overturned furniture, it was time to check the larger offices- Murdoch's and Brackenreid's. The Englishman checked his own office with unusually care, finding nothing missing but a bottle of his finest scotch. He had to admit, the bugger had good taste. Murdoch should have checked his own office, but he was nowhere to be seen, so the job was delegated to Crabtree.

After about half an hour, George finally emerged, looking worried. Brackenreid noticed something was wrong right away, and his interest was instantly piqued. He entered the detective's office somewhat hesitantly- this was Murdoch's space, not his. The constable was being his normal over excited self, but this time he had a reason.

His office was utterly destroyed. Chairs were thrown in all directions and his cabinets tossed viciously on the floor. His desk was the only thing untouched, or at least what he thought was untouched- Murdoch's desk has been disorganized ever since Ogden left, making it harder than ever to figure out what exactly was missing. The new electric light was on the ground; but it still remained on. After the grueling process of righting the furniture, the office managed to look somewhat decent.

Together, he and the constable began searching for clues. Watching his employee make quick work of the situation, he noted George's strong dedication- maybe he would make a good detective after all. Crabtree beckoned him over near the door- bringing him out of his dazed stupor and pointing out Murdoch's hat still on the stand.

After leaving his colleague's office, Brackenreid returned to his own office. Where the bloody hell was Murdoch? He should be here by now. Since Ogden left he had been kind of on edge, a bit angry- but he had been getting better. He had never even been late or missed a day of work- unless you count his unplanned trip to Bristol. It just wasn't like him to be so late. Pouring himself a glass of his second best scotch, he waited for Crabtree to finish up. He hoped to God that Murdoch was just home sick.

About twenty minutes later, Crabtree knocked gently and quietly entered his office. They didn't talk but Crabtree gestured for him to follow. The Inspector couldn't help but notice the worried look which appeared in his blue eyes. Entering the office, George jumped into his explanation, pointing hastily across the room. The first few things were obvious, but by the time Crabtree had brought up the hat and the bright light a clear scene had begun to form. From where both men stood, it was clear Murdoch had been removed forcefully.

Hastily, he all but attacked the desk- searching for any kind of lead. He couldn't help but feel as if he was intruding, but he pushed the feeling deep down. Right now William was a victim and if Murdoch taught them anything it was to always get to know your victim. Anyway, he could always apologise later. Ignoring the small voice in the back of his head, he assured himself there would be a later. There had to be.

Lying wrinkled on a haphazard stack of papers, he found a battered telegram. Skimming over the text, his mind reeled with all the possibilities. It was from Julia and the rendezvous was set for today. The hope which had begun to wear away suddenly reignited. Maybe Murdoch had gone? Maybe he was okay?

The voice of reason laughed bitterly from inside his skull, bringing back the evidence, and slowly crumbling his resolve. He was wrong to have hoped and he felt guilty for letting himself get so distracted. With a sad sigh, he returned to his search, forcing open the wooden drawers.

Inside the desk was a disaster. It was as if a frenzied tornado had swept through, and the neat piles that once existed were scattered about and torn. There were a few large, sealed envelopes which, he reasoned, were unsent letters to Buffalo. Then with a pitying look, he noticed a shining case shoved into the corner of the mess. The top of the case glistened in the harsh light of the lamp and curiosity dawned upon him. Was Murdoch planning to propose?

With renewed sadness, Brackenreid closed the drawer and a heavy echo rebounded around the room. His heart was heavy as he returned to his office. His fingers fumbled clumsily as he dialed the hospital in Buffalo. He and Ogden needed to have a little chat.


	3. Chapter 3

Julia heard the phone ring and wondered who would be calling her. She had no friends in Buffalo and as far as she was concerned the only person from Toronto she knew was William, and they hadn't spoken in months. Setting aside her confusion, she hesitantly picked it up, ending the sharp noise which seemed to penetrate her quiet office.

Maybe one day, she thought optimistically, they would invent a screen which showed the identity of the caller. They could call it "Caller identification". She giggled happily, Murdoch would be proud of her creativity.

Her nervousness quickly returning, she quietly said hello, and was shocked to hear the clear English accent of Inspector Brackenreid. She detected thinly-masked worry behind his usually confident tone. It made her stomach churn uncomfortably, her anxiety growing. Even with years of working together and this was their first phone call. Even when they had worked on the same cases; it was always George or Henry who had notified her.

He began to explain to her how William had not shown up to work. He had probably seen the telegram, she reasoned. Concern began to plague her heart, her breath increasing as a sad realisation began to dawn. All she knew was that he wasn't at work and he certainly wasn't here. He never even replied to the telegram.

After being forced to explain her story for yet another time, she wanted to hang up. She had repeated this over and over again- suspicious death and suspicious hospital staff. Her feelings for William, however, kept her from snapping at the Inspector. They may have dulled since she left, or maybe she was trying to hide them- but they were still there. She doubted they would ever disappear.

Then, he told her about the ring- and her heart fluttered in her chest, before guilt began to seep in. He was going to propose, she reacted with a sad gasp. She would have said yes, probably. Her mind was sent reeling. Would she?

She wanted to, oh, how she wanted to. But she couldn't, he had wanted a family and she was sterile. He would have been miserable, right?

She was startled by the sound of yelling coming from the phone, and quickly remembered that Thomas was still on the line. Her mind had wandered off; starring at the ring Darcy had given her.

She knew she should have stayed- all her friends were in Toronto so was her was her family. Looking back on it, she asked herself about why she felt she had to leave. It took a bit of reminiscing but she soon recalled the reason.

She didn't want to be the woman who let love hold her back. She had seen it much too often- women with so much potential were held back by a man who didn't understand that they were so much more than housewives.

Some had brilliant minds, while others had creativity which seemed to flow through their fingertips and fill entire notebooks. Others held such compassion that they could lift the spirits of all in Toronto, with some left to spare. Julia wasn't sure what made her so special, she only knew that a life of a housewife would drive her mad with boredom.

That was the reason she left, the pathologist decided. She wanted to work with living people, not the corpses of lovers, daughters or sons. She wanted breathing and smiles, not the cold air of the morgue or the harsh smell of chemicals. She wished she could say she had achieved her dream, but honesty prevented her. She wasn't happy; it had abandoned her when she boarded that horrid train.

She missed everyone, William mainly, but the others too. She missed George's enthusiasm and the way Thomas always gave Murdoch a bit of leeway. She didn't belong here; she had no friends, no joy. Every smile was forced and every interaction, a necessity. Yes, she had a fiancé but she didn't love him. She had only said yes because he had asked and she was just getting over William. The sad part- she had actually thought she loved him.

With a slow resignation she realized she wanted to be one of those women. Those women chose love over their career, because you can make as much money as you want but, as she slowly learned, money doesn't buy love. It can't even buy friends.

Getting up from her desk and stifling a sigh, she exited her abandon office. Her determined footsteps echoed in the silent, empty hallways. It was a spur of the moment decision; she knew it was silly and regrettably unjustified. The ex-pathologist felt her feet move as if on their own accord- she was on a mission.

Julia Ogden decided she was going to Toronto.


	4. Chapter 4

Murdoch felt vibrations beneath him and he suddenly became very aware of his surroundings. His mind was groggy, but eventually his detective senses finally starting to work again.

His head was pounding and the rattling carriage only hurt his battered frame, intensifying the pain. He couldn't see, so his eyes were covered, and he couldn't breathe very well, suggesting a cloth covered his face.

He couldn't hear the rhythmic sound of horse's hooves, so they probably weren't on any of the Toronto roads. They were most likely far away on one of the dirt roads that made up outskirt of the city.

He tried to focus on getting his memory to work. He searched out anything which could tell him the time and then he'd be able to estimate where he was. There was nothing, and it scared him. At least they were still moving, he reminded himself. They won't hurt you while they're moving.

With a rush of adrenaline, he felt the carriage begin to slow to a stop. He couldn't hear anything except his own breathing- no birds, no people, and most importantly, no footsteps. He didn't know how long he was left lying there, straining his ears to begin working again.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, he heard footfalls coming from outside the carriage. Heavy footsteps approached the door and Murdoch could only sit and wait.

The carriage door creaked open and the hostage waited- for death, for unconsciousness, something, anything. It never came.

He felt someone attempt to pick him up from underneath his arms, but he was too heavy. If this was to happen seven months ago he would have been much harder to carry. Since Ogden left he had lost a lot of weight, not so much that anyone noticed, but enough to be concerned about none the less.

It wasn't his fault, not really. He just didn't feel up to it. The urge to live was still there, but it had degraded into a mere will to survive. There was no grand attempt to die (he still believed suicide was a sin), but he began to care less and less about keeping his happy façade.

At first, he had tried to keep smiling, maintaining a mask he hadn't known he had. He'd wave off his friends' concerns, using excuses like mantras until they were engrained in his speech. He didn't know if it fooled anybody, but he had to try.

Soon, however, his shell began to crack. The pressure got to be too much and a few teacups had taken the brunt of his anger. He saw pity in the eyes of his colleagues and he knew he had let himself down, he had let Julia down. The strength was gone, and he had no leads for where to search.

At one point, faith may have been enough. When Liza had passed away, it became his crutch. Now, he realized, he'd lost that too. He couldn't decide if his life was better now or then, and frankly, he didn't care.

The suspect eventually gave up; carrying Murdoch seemed too much hassle especially when William had working legs. Being forced to stand, William felt the pressure of a gun again at the small of his back. Any possibility of him running away just flew out the metaphorical window.

Without a fight, Murdoch allowed himself to be half pushed, half walking to wherever they were going. He didn't know where he was walking too, he couldn't hear any birds and apart from the gun there were no signs of life.

He didn't know how long they had been walking, but his legs had begun to hurt and his feet were numb. Not the kind of numb he felt because Julia left, but that numb that made your muscles hurt- the kind of numb that would eventually fade.

Finally the footsteps behind him stopped. He heard shuffling and the creaking of an opening door. Than just a quickly as the suspect had left, he was back. The pressure of the gun weighed on Murdoch now more than ever.

He could have run, but that would most likely result in a bullet to the spine, and to be honest, paralysis didn't sound too pleasant.

He was shoved roughly into an extremely uncomfortable chair and a thick rope was quickly tied around his wrists. The same was done to his ankles which were then bounded to the legs of the chair.

He couldn't move- he had tried for about five minutes with no results except rope burn on the exposed skin of his wrists. That would hurt tomorrow, he thought to himself.

Heavy footsteps dragged behind him and next thing he knew the back of a gun was colliding with the back of his head.

He found himself praying, that someone would find him. Then the world went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Crabtree waited at his desk and tried to be patient. Unfortunately for his peers, Crabtree having patients for longer than half an hour was near impossible. He was bored and like all great detectives he had nothing to do. Worry gnawed on his fraying composure and his fingers drummed rhythmically on the hard wood of his desk.

Even though Murdoch's office had been ransacked, nothing had been taken. Maybe, George pondered, the suspect was about to take something but Murdoch interfered. But then again, if nothing was taken then why were all the cabinets knocked over. He held back a sigh.

Getting up for the millionth time this hour, he re-entered Murdoch's office, looking for any clues he could have missed. The men had done a good job returning the office to its previous state- righting cabinets and collecting pieces of glass for fingerprinting. Of course, it would take a few days to find a match, but he could wait- probably.

He moved on quickly and the next thing on his mind was how the suspect got in. The night before Crabtree himself had locked the doors, so there was no way he got through there. When they entered the next day the door was unlocked, so that was most likely the way he exited.

Even though Murdoch had been staying late recently, he always used his own key to lock up- so the suspect must have found another way in. The window, Crabtree had an 'ah ha' moment. Higgins had closed the window because the draft had become an annoyance, so the window had been open when they arrived.

Quickly approaching the window behind Higgins desk, Crabtree started looking for evidence. Opening the window, much to his friends' dismay, George's brain went instantly into detective mode. Using techniques Murdoch had taught him, his eyes circled into the corner of the window.

Upon closer inspection he realized it was a section of strong, beige thread- the main component of rope. Calling over one of the newer constables, Crabtree told him to fingerprint the window pane, quickly explaining the process.

Entering Brackenreid's office he sat down, sighing heavily. Thomas looked up, obviously very annoyed. Thomas and Crabtree were never very close, nor did they see eye to eye on most matters. In Brackenreid's eyes George was just an enthusiastic constable who just wanted to be detective.

But Brackenreid also saw the value in having him around. Murdoch needed the assistant aspect that he brought and he seemed to enjoy teaching George. George also brought some humor to the more serious cases. He also did most of the dirty work; including digging, running, and entertainingly- interviewing alcohol addled squatters. He got along with all the men and he hadn't screw anything up so far, so maybe his annoyance was a bit hasty.

George knew that Brackenreid didn't really like him, but in classic Crabtree fashion he didn't really care. Looking up he saw his boss annoyance slowly start to slip away. It was replaced by a look of acceptance- whether it was acceptance of Crabtree or acceptance of someone who wasn't Murdoch sitting in his office, he didn't know.

Crabtree decided it didn't matter. During times of turmoil (Murdoch's amnesia), the station had stuck together despite difference of opinions or status. This was one of those times, he realised. It was always Murdoch, thought George with a stifled laugh. He always had bad luck- amnesia, kidnapping, being knocked out by the government.

The worst had, of course, been watching Julia leave him for Buffalo. They had to watch as his mask began to crumble and try to shut out the sound of raised voices and shattering porcelain. The men began to whisper, but despite his valiant efforts, Crabtree couldn't get the rumours to stop.

The stories were ridiculous but every day they spun a more instruct web. Some said she was sterile and other said it was him. Others talked of affairs, the more courageous officers though either Julia or William was homosexual. Crabtree had laughed at first but now he glared at them harshly.

In the Inspector's office, they sat there in silence for just over half an hour. Alcohol was offered, alcohol was denied. During this time, Crabtree explained the window theory, and much to his dismay Thomas didn't wave it off as insane.

It would take a few days for results to get in, it always did. Even though all men were dedicated to this one case, they didn't have fancy machines and much to everyone's dislike everything had to be completed by hand.

What annoyed everyone the most was the lack of evidence. Nothing in Murdoch's office was missing, so that ruled out any support of motive. The entrances and exits seemed pretty clean, no forensic evidence, as it now known, got left behind.

All they knew was that the detective was missing. What annoyed Brackenreid the most was not just the lack of evidence but the lack of efficiency. All the inspections would take days. Murdoch could have traveled as far as Kingston. He could be five kilometers away in some abandon mansion, heck he could already be dead. And despite everyone's best efforts, it was an option to be taken seriously.

Until the results came in they would just have to sit and wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Julia arrived in Toronto a few days after the phone call. Her turbulent thoughts made her stomach churn and turned her usually serine thought into nervous ramblings. She could barely keep down the meager soup and crackers and sleep was a long awaited miracle. Every time she fell asleep she dreamed of him, not of the good times they shared, but of his funeral. Needless to say, she didn't get much rest.

She looked terrible and felt even worse. Ever since leaving Toronto, a hole had begun to form. It started small, but as time drew on, it began to grow. When Darcy had proposed, it seemed to heal, if only a little. It had turned out to be just a figment of her imagination. There was no way it was going ever to heal, and months ago she had accepted it.

Her fiancé was like a band aid. She used him to cover up her scars and the wound leaving William had left. It wasn't his fault, she reminded herself, it was hers. She thought seeing him again wold help her to heal, but she had been foolish. The moment she sent the telegram, she realised that.

Seeing him again would only reopen the wound she had left to fester. Was it worth the pain? The pediatrician didn't know, but at the moment there were more pressing matters. A conspiracy was at hand, and there was only one man she could trust. The same man who was currently missing.

After dropping her bags off at the hotel, she boarded a carriage heading towards the station. The ride over was uncomfortable, to say the least. I'm just nervous about Murdoch, she told herself even though deep down she knew it was so much more.

Arriving at the station, she kindly thanked the driver and entered the building. She suddenly became very uneasy. All eyes were on her and it was very unsettling.

Walking quickly, she entered the inspectors' office, interrupting a very intense staring competition between George and Thomas. Noticing Ogden's presence Brackenreid nodded at George who hastily stood up and left the office.

The usually calm inspector looked at her quizzically. She could practically see the gears turn in his head. His eyes seemed to ask 'What are you doing here?" She didn't have an answer, but the bitterness in his tone told her she needed to find one and quick.

She thought she could help, she cared about him, she wanted him to be okay- answers flooded her mind. She settled on option number one, although she knew he wouldn't believe her.

He then advised her to leave. She was taken back, almost as if she had been slapped. A doctor was willing to help him find his colleague, for free, and he was saying no. With a surge of confidence, she straightened her stance. She was going to stay.

She knew it was just a missing person's case and prayed her expertise wouldn't be of any use, but she also had a personal knowledge of Murdoch. After three years of working together and about a year of dating she knew more about him than the entire station. She prayed to every deity that her life as a pathologist was over.

The inspector intimidating mood finally began to lighten up and he directed her to Murdoch's office, where Crabtree was currently seated. Sitting down across from the younger man, she saw his eyes light up with new energy. If it wasn't for the tense atmosphere, she may even have smiled.

He described the evidence with a little more enthusiasm than with Brackenreid, words tumbling out of his mouth at lightning speed. With every sentence, she felt her worry began to grow, making her heart heavier and her limbs a little more numb.

He looked at her with expecting eyes and awkward tension filled the room. What was she supposed to ask about? The ring? How he was going to propose to her meanwhile she ran off to another city for a promotion? Let's start with that, she decided.

"Can I see the ring" she asked. Hesitantly, Crabtree began ruffling through Murdoch's desk, obviously uncomfortable with the task at hand. Finding the ring he tossed it gently towards her. She caught it with ease and held it tightly in her folded hands. George knowing his place promptly left the room. Hearing the door click shut, she unraveled her hands, revealing the ornate silver box.

As soon as she saw it, her heart jumped in her chest and she could feel her emotions begin to swell. Her thoughts swirled like smoke, clouding her reason and bringing up hidden guilt. Possible scenario's danced across her vision, each one more heartbreaking than the last.

Suddenly, a loud commotion from Brackenreid's office brought her back to the present. Julia carefully placed the box on his desk and ran quickly to the inspectors' office.


	7. Chapter 7

Crabtree handed the inspector an unlabeled piece of mail, curiosity shining clearly through his features. Carefully, Thomas opened the envelope, roughly pulling out an ordinary piece of mail.

The inspector began reading out loud, anger and confusion replacing his usually collected tones. "I have your detective" he said, followed by a short pause. "If you want him back, alive destroy the file and evidence associated with the recent jewellery store theft by midnight tonight."

With a deep sigh, Thomas sat down heavily on his desk, too distracted to bother to receive a chair. The Inspector stared at the ground, hands slowly clenching into fists. His daze wandered to his missing colleague's office, worry bleeding into his blue eyes. George, to his credit, tried to remain still. Being George, his attempts failed miserably.

Grabbing the now empty envelope, he ran his fingers along the bottom seam, careful not to get cut by the papers sharp edge. It was common, untraceable and therefore utterly useless. His teeth ground in frustration and he resisted the urge to crumple the envelope.

Suddenly, George's fingers snagged on something. It didn't feel very thick, but thin like a piece of paper. A note within a note, he thought curiously. Emptying the package of its contents, he was surprised to see it was indeed a sheet of paper. A picture of Murdoch could now be clearly seen against the dark shade of the Inspector's desk.

Nervously he called out the Inspectors' name, startling the older man from within his deep concentration. He handed the photograph to the Inspector who quickly dropped the now unimportant letter. He watched as the cheap material floated to the ground, and caught a flash of typewritten text. The man was smarter than he'd given him credit for.

The picture was of simple composition, with Murdoch bound to a chair. The faded wood of the background looked aged and rural, definitely not in Toronto. A barrel of the gun was clearly displayed jutting out of the corner of the photo, and aiming vaguely towards the captive detective.

He looked furious, and his features showed the same deep hatred as when he talked to Francis. The look was rare, but terrifying. Strong resilience shone through his brown eyes, making the detective look stronger than he had all year. Gone was the persistent weariness and back was the spark they all knew and loved. Unfortunately, it was for all the wrong reasons.

The inspector for some strange reason began to laugh. A highly inappropriate action, Crabtree thought to himself. Thomas looked up at him strangely, his face was laughing, but his eyes looked almost depressed.

His features, however, quickly transformed and now he looked full of vengeance, even more intimidating than Murdoch.

"The bugger has a gun on our detective" yelled the Inspector, his voice gradually gaining volume.

"Do you know what this means? Do you know what the bloody means? Do you constable?" Crabtree shook his head, too scared to talk.

"It means that he's got us. First he destroys the station, then he takes our detective, then he kills him regardless of what we do." During his speech Thomas had slowly been inching towards George, his index finger probably forming a bruise on Crabtree's chest.

"Sir" Crabtree said calmly, standing up for himself. "I know that he's your friend, but we are all trying our best to find him. Despite your little faith you have in our ability, we will find him."

Sighing in defeat the inspector sat down and began staring at the photo. After about five minutes of excruciating silence, Crabtree was called from his now seated position by the Inspector.

With a muffled cough, Brackenreid pointed to a piece of lumber situated below the only window. Squinting, George could just make out a number, possibly a date. He gave the inspector a curious glance and the older man began to explain, happiness slowly seeping back into his voice.

Thomas began explaining how pieces of wood or stone were placed in buildings to signify the year they were opened, something he picked up from Murdoch. With a quick gesture, Crabtree was sent to the archive.

Entering the dusty room, he began going through the records, taking ten files at a time. He began thinking about the ransom. It wasn't money, which was odd. It wasn't really anything of value, unless the suspect was directly involved. That would be stupid though, he reminded himself, shaking his head. Even the dimmest constables could figure that out.

Finally after the hundredth boring record, a file matching the description decided to show its face- or would it be the cover, Crabtree wondered. Whatever it was- he found it, the building they were holding Murdoch. Happily exiting the claustrophobic room, he entered the Inspector's office.


	8. Chapter 8

Murdoch was tired, hungry and numb. The chair he had been bound to kept him still. The binds never budged and either did he. He tried to free himself, but the ropes were too tight. The only thing he had succeeded in doing was creating severe rope burn around his already sensitive wrists.

The cloth was still covering his head, but the smell seemed to waft in from every corner. It smelt gruesome and he recalled to metallic smell of blood. Soft footprints crept up from behind and the dark cloth was pulled roughly over his head, letting in the blinding sunlight and making the detective wince. He couldn't see the man's eyes, but the cruel, yellowing smile left the sudden urge to flee.

The captor lifted an aging camera and aimed the gun towards Murdoch's general direction. The flash was unnecessarily harsh, and William hoped that his anger refelcted in the lens. If looks could kill then Murdoch would be saved.

He knew he should have panicked, but somewhere deep his strong resolve kept him stable. He was self-assured the men were looking for him. The man had taken his picture, the station had to know.

With renewed confidence, he pushed his worries as far back as they would go and focused on the case itself. Something about this incident was off. The man came in looking for whatever it was he wanted, and left with a detective. News worthy, but not consistent. If he wanted information then why hadn't he been tortured or asked any questions. He was simply tied up and left there, for seemingly no purpose.

If he wanted money, Murdoch had money- but then again so did banks. Nothing about this crime made any sense. Kidnapping and ransom were a big leap from petty theft. The confusion made his headache worse, so he took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts.

Thinking back to the stationhouse, he hoped the men were carrying on without him. He wasn't really too concerned. They had helped when he had amnesia, so a kidnapping should be a walk in the park. He was pretty sure George would even enjoy this one too, if not for its urgency.

He stifled a yawn and wondered idly how long he had been tied up. It couldn't have been that long, he told himself, but he knew he was wrong. Enough time had passed that his thoughts had wandered off the immediate danger and onto other things- mainly Julia.

He couldn't help but blame Julia for this little predicament. If it wasn't for her he wouldn't be in this mess. He wouldn't be weak as to be subdued by a meager attacker; he wouldn't have been working late at the office and most of all he would have been able to figure out this mess.

Deep down he knew it wasn't her fault. Yes, she was half the problem but not the whole. It was his fault that he brought up children. It was his fault he couldn't express himself. After the death of Liza he had been shaken, and he had become closed up after that. Not even taking a glance at those deemed too unstable for his ultimate goal of family.

Julia changed all that. She had been the wild card he decided to take a chance on. She was unpredictable and he thanked her for it- even detectives needed an escape. She dropped bombs on him that he wasn't prepared for.

He had enjoyed it. He smiled, and opened up again. His movements were no longer calculated. Then, she had brought up her abortion. Her past shouldn't have been the cause for the misery she caused him. They were her demons to stay, she had failed and because of that he was broken.

Logic had always been like his bomb shelter, and now it was a pile of rubble. He didn't have logic, just facts that used to make sense. Facts that he could no longer reference of verify. His perfect world had crumbled. Nowhere was safe. Not logic, not work, not religion, not even paperwork could protect him.

He had tried to rebuild but he couldn't. His heart was so war torn- love vs. hate had destroyed all the resources. He couldn't rebuild, there was too much history, the ground too bumpy. He secretly wondered if she felt the same; if she could continue to function without him.

As sadistic as it may be, he hoped so. She deserved this. She ruined his life, not on purpose mind you, and it would be unfair if she had escaped unharmed. Regardless of who he blamed, he knew he wasn't innocent. Either way, he was here now and a lack of telegram could not have prevented that.

Lifting the black cloth roughly over his head, the man approached. William felt the hard steel of a gun being slammed into his aching head and everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9

The news had been taken with great joy, and even more anxiety. Almost instantly the Inspector had ordered them to the armory. The constables made quick work of emptying the racks of guns and the loud shouts of men seemed to echo in the halls.

The station buzzed with a kind of impatient energy, screaming to be released. She sat in the main precinct, in the borrowed chair of a young constable. They rushed hastily, like bees in a hive- picking up precious weaponry and delivering it to awaiting vehicles. She felt alone, yet overwhelmingly safe. These people, she smiled, were going to save William.

Everyone was doing their part, some were preparing the weapons, some were gathering the carriages and some higher ups, like Crabtree, were controlling the chaos. However scrambled the jobs seemed they were all working towards one common goal- bring William home.

Even Julia was joining the effort, preparing medical supplies if such precautions were necessary. She knew deep down it was not her fault, but still that guilt remained. It left a cold numb feeling deep within the center of her heart. She could feel it, it wasn't real in the way that Murdoch was, but it was real enough.

If she just hadn't been so stupid, so naïve, to think that leaving would be a cure. That ripping of the bandage that prevented his vulnerable heart from breaking was her greatest regret. She knew better. This had hurt, no, destroyed him. It wasn't smart, but at the time it had felt like the only possible solution.

As the men began to finish up, the buzz died down. It was the calm before the storm, and soon the precinct was filled with orders to regroup. The Inspector took charge, worry leaking through the weakened confidence. At some part of his speech his voice had started to sound almost metallic, more machine than man. She understood why- this was just too painful to infuse with much passion.

The carriage ride was treacherous. Rough roads roughly bounced the carriage like one of those sickening electric cars. The four wall of the caravan seemed too tight and awkward tension practically steeped the anxious passengers.

She sat in the middle of a fuming Brackenreid, and a much too silent Crabtree. Her black medical bag held tools which jingled with each bump which met by the worn wooden wheels. The men rode behind them in assorted vehicles, not that she paid them much attention.

When they finally arrived, she prayed the kidnapper wouldn't notice. They made sure to walk quietly, but the silence only gave way to more anticipation. The crunch of gravel began to grate on her nerves and she prayed to keep her composure. The men dispatched carefully, surrounding the building with practiced ease.

The three leaders waited at the main doors, waiting for Brackenreid to finish knocking. The sun-damaged door shook with every assault, imitating the rattling of her panic addled heart. His strong English tones announced, with an overpowering sense of anger, that they were about to enter.

The scent was ghastly. The air sizzled with the strong smell of dust and something strongly acidic. When the burning settled down, the sight was horrendous. Her breathe caught in her throat as she took in the sight before her.

Murdoch lay unconscious, tied to an old, poorly built chair. Behind him stood a man, his yellowing teeth the only visible feature. He was clad in scruffy clothes, coated in dust from weathered age. What caught her eye was the barrel of a gun, separating William's temple and the kidnapper's grimy fingers.

Everyone froze. The man seemed comfortable, too at ease for Julia's liking. Murdoch's handsome face looked unharmed except for the obvious cuts and scrapes sprinkled along his jaw. Otherwise, he looked like hell. Dark bags adorned his closed eyes and a drop of blood was dripping somewhere near his hairline. He was unconscious, but the gentle rise of his chest was a relief to all.

Brackenreid lowered his hands, talking to the stubborn man in calming tones which gave away no hints of his inner turmoil. The man replied after a slight pause in a voice full of arrogance, Julia could barely stand to look at him.

He had them right where he wanted them and he knew it. He smiled cruelly and Julia wondered how man had managed to degrade to such a level. A sly smile split across his face, and he asked confidently for the file.

Crabtree bent down, making sure to not loose contact with the man's dull eyes. The files slid unevenly over the rough concrete floor. Surprisingly, the man didn't pick them up, just stared. Julia wanted to yell at him to do something, but she knew her attempts would be futile.

Thomas gestured with his hand and a few of the men moved towards the open door. Their guns steadied and still, as if frozen. The man behind the chair gave a disapproving shake of his head and with unnerving fluidity clicked off the safety. The men visibly flinched, as did she.

With a final look of superiority he pulled the trigger.


	10. Chapter 10

William was woken up by the unmistakable hum of wheels on a worn terrain. His head was cloudy and his vision hazy. The persistent headache was back at full strength as he forced himself to swallow.

His throat was dry and the dusty air inside the barn stung at his tired eyes. His stomach rumbled in protest to hours without food and his hands felt like lead, holding him down. The burn of the ropes had calmed down to a numbing pain, but it hurt none the less.

He strained his hears and above the symphony of wheels he could hear the clopping of powerful horses and the eerie silence of anticipation. The violent wind blew by, seeping through the cracks of the damaged building and making him shiver through his thin cotton shirt. The crash of tired hooves came to a stop after picking up volume and the footfall of men echoed from outside the wooden door.

A loud whiny was stopped by a tug on the reins and a pained whimper escaped; one that was echoed by the detective. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, making his heartbeat faster; too fast for an aching body.

Every fibre of h is being was praying. Begging someone, anyone that the people outside were here to save him. He hoped that it was Brackenreid leading the mission and that George, ever loyal George, was fighting by his side. He wished it was his station out there and not more kidnappers; pawns in some sick game.

The thought was forced out of his head as a grimy cloth was placed over his face and the sweet scent of chloroform flooded his senses. His eyes began to close as he willed them to stay open.

Unconsciousness crept on him, black threads winding around his entire being and pulling him down to the depths. His breathing was slow and calculated as he drifted off into the nothingness. It felt as if he was floating, not on water or air, but an odd combination of the two.

From somewhere in the darkness he heard the door shudder with every assault. Finally the entrance gave in and the worn wood opened up with a heavy crack. The accented voice of the Inspector leaked through his heavy slumber and into the smoke that was unconsciousness.

Relief flooded through him at the voice of his superior. Brackenreid was cautious, talking to the man in a manner not learnt in the constabulary, and if William had been awake it would have reassured him.

An arrogant voice asked from behind for the files of the most recent robbery. The unmistakable sound of paper running over rough concrete filtered through his mind and hope filled his entire being. The information skidded to a halt by his feet as he waited patiently for the man to pick it up. He never did.

There was no rustle of paper or crackle of cheap cotton, only the panicked breath of the detective as his heart beat at a quickened pace. The file had become ransom; a trade for his safety and the man didn't want it.

Rage flooded through him, not towards his situation but the fact that this was how he was going to die. Not in some heroic fall or in the line of duty, but because one man was selfish enough to choose an ignored ransom over his life. He could almost see the sick smile that graced the man's worn features.

The click of the safety sent panic through his veins. All the doubt and worry fell from gravity, crushing him under the ruble of fear. Breathing became harder and from the depths of unconsciousness the smoke was choking him. Inside he was crumbling.

The pressure of the outside world was causing him to fold; molding him into something he never though he would be, a victim. Someone so strong, but in their time of weakness they became as vulnerable as a child lost amongst the crowd. He heard the pleas of the men through the rustling wind and the composed voice of his superior, but still he felt alone.

He was alone, he assured himself. Liza had died, Julia had left him, and everyone he had ever loved was gone. Something had always stolen them away from him. There were others, different options, better options. He told himself he could move on; that eventually he would, but he never did.

He was stuck in the past, always looking towards the future and turning away. Guilt, pain and worry plagued his heart, always lingering and leaving a bitter path in its wake. Everything he loved was being taken away, his job and his life.

Maybe, just maybe, this was what he needed. Forget about faith he told himself, forget about love, and forget about hope. This is what he needed; a fresh start, one without guilt or pain- one where he could look back and see not regrets but all the lives he saved without the stories of loss that weaved their way throughout. He allowed himself a moment of calm and behind his tired facade he smiled into the darkness.

He didn't even notice when the trigger was pulled.


	11. Chapter 11

The world froze, hearts stopped, time stood still.

Darkness plagued the room, crawling into the reluctant hearts of every man and breaking the resilient tension. The world seemed to slow as, with a sickening crack, the trigger was pulled. The bullet entered flawlessly, whistling through the air and colliding with bloodied flesh as a final breath was drawn.

Crabtree watched, eyes wide with panic as Thomas glared with finely masked rage. Julia watched with numb discontent as tiny red droplets landed on dirty concrete. With painful slowness he fell, chest still and cold. His eyes were closed and a sad smile graced his features.

From behind she heard a bullet discharge, landing in the chest of the hollow man standing behind the body. She watched as he began to fall, clutching at his wound as a red stain blossomed behind his worn shirt. The unloaded gun tumbled to the floor, clattering uselessly to the foot of the chair.

From across the room, eerie blue orbs met her own, vacant and lackluster. His breathing became laboured, the shallow movements of his chest dwindling slowly. With a final, almost primal, smirk he chuckled, dark red staining white fangs.

From the corner of her eye, Crabtree ran forward, sliding on his knees to catch his befallen hero. A heavy thud resounded as his limp body landed against the thick uniform. Blood, dark and thick, ran down his temple, pooling beneath his prone form.

Clouds hung around her, and tears stung her dampening eyes. Around her dark uniforms rushed by, busying themselves with mundane tasks. Julia wished she could do the same, but her feet were rooted to the spot. The doctor held her breath even as his body was pried away, staring at the pool of blood instead. Inside she felt numb, hollow. A thousand regrets settled deep in her heart.

A warm hand touched her shoulder and without looking she knew it had to be George. Julia allowed herself to be pulled away from the scene, heart clenching at the sight of fallen faces. Stepping into the carriage provided no comfort even as George and the Inspector took up their rightful places.

The old wheels shuddered along the rough gravel and the empty echo of hooves filled the otherwise silent carriage. Reluctantly she let her mind drift, finally settling on William.

From the moment they had met, he had captivated her. He was her hero; intelligent, kind, and with so much to offer. She knew Liza had left a hole in his heart, a hole she had been terrified to even think of filling. Some days he would stare off in the distance and she could see the darkness, the regret which still haunted his heart.

Gradually, a friendship had transformed into a kind of co-dependence. They said it was merely for work, but they both knew it was a lie. She was his escape and he was hers. Together they would chat, filling her morgue with laughter rather than the coldness that seemed to hang in the air. When Julia would visit his office, she would pretend not to notice his faint blush or the way George would promptly rush out.

For so long they denied it, dancing around each other in an endless game. All those moments they had shared, all the denial, all the pain- none of it compared to the sight of his prone form. The night she left was one of the times she truly regretted. She saw the sorrow in his fallen features and the emptiness of his saddened eyes.

Dusk had fallen and outside stars mocked with faux brightness. The carriage shuddered to a halt and she resisted the part of her heart urging her to flee. Instead Julia treaded leisurely, taking in the sights of couples and drunkards, the same oblivious look plastered to their faces. She walked without purpose, wandering through the darkness and watching as the final rays of sun began to dwindle.

Her feet had begun to hurt as she found herself standing by a bridge, watching the murky water swirl below. Her arms rested on the cool metal of the bridge and she winced at the metallic tang in the air. It reminded her of blood- his blood, rich ruby and pooling beneath the silent frame. Harsh wind cut the air like a knife, causing her dress to wrap around her ankles. Pulling her coat tighter against herself, she stared into the abyss.

She remained staring into the inky depths long after the warmth had left the air. It must have been midnight now, she thought warily, disregarding the frozen winds. For the first time in a while she felt utterly alone.

Around her crickets sang and trees swayed, creating a soothing symphony. She looked up at the stars, clinging together as if their life depended on it. For a moment she envied those tiny dots, shining brightly and surrounded by the moon and sun- adhering to time itself.

In the water, their insignificant reflections were distorted by the choppy waters, disappearing behind powerful waves and weathered rocks. She swallowed reflexively, a single tear threatening to fall. Maybe that's all we are in the end, she thought sadly.

Maybe we are simply reflections- damaged, vulnerable echoes born of fear and wiped out by nature, cruel and unforgiving. Maybe life was all there was, no heaven, no hell, just tiny pinpricks of moments and people- memories simply waiting to disappear. Life was looking up at the stars, envying their beauty, their immortality and clinging to the hope that one day we too would be free.

So much regret was weighing on her shoulders, pushing her down, lower and lower until she could barely stand. On weak knees she began to walk back in the direction of the stationhouse. Passing the middle of the bridge, she couldn't help but stop.

A gap appeared in the rusty framework and she drew closer to the edge. Ferocious winds forced the water to swirl and spit precariously. Standing at the edge, she breathed in deeply, watching as waves crashed against the rusting infrastructure.

Butterflies rose in her stomach and her palms began to sweat. Red hair curled behind her, exposed her neck and making her shiver. Nausea caused her stomach to spin and a hand held gingerly onto the solid beams of the bridge. Her hands curled into fists, nails creating crescent moons amongst the inside of her palm.

With a deep breathe, Julia stepped forward and allowed herself to fall. The heavy wind wrapped around her, chilling her tired soul and reminding her of nature's treacherous ways. Entering the water was felt almost like a relief, as it froze her to the bone- numbing her in an almost painful manner. Her blue eyes burnt with the sting of the river and her lungs felt as if they were on fire. Her body screamed at her to return to the surface, but her very being spurred her decent.

The darkness seemed to envelop her, swallowing her guilt and pain. She welcomed all of it, the numbness, the freedom. Her breathing slowed, heart tapering until she could no longer feel the deafening rush of wind. Her limbs were frozen, the numbness deafening. Around her chaos raged on, but she felt only peace.

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><p><em>Life is vulnerable, life is fleeting, but most of all, life is beautiful. Tragedy makes realise that life is looking up at the stars, taking in their beauty, praising their immortality and clinging to the hope that one day we too will be free.<em>

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><p><strong>This story is dedicated to Holly. You are an inspiration and a beautiful, creative human being. Thank you for your friendship, dedication and overwhelming kindness. Thank you to all those who reviewed, read, followed or favourited. You truly make the world go 'round.<strong>

**Je t'aime,**

**-Stephanie**


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